“Don’t talk, boss.” Savchenko wheezed, placing the tray on Arman’s bedside table. The steeping mug and the teapot clattered as he clumsily set the tray down. He splashed a generous portion of bourbon into the cup, and then added a healthy dollop of honey, swirling the spoon with his stubby fingers to dissolve the ingredients into the steaming brew.

  Arman took the vaporous cup from his mammoth bodyguard and nodded appreciatively. “Ogromnoye spasibo,” he squawked, blanching as he spoke, his tender vocal cords irritated by the simple act of speaking. Sipping slowly, he could feel the mildly soothing effects of the bourbon/honey tea on both his ravaged throat and wounded pride.

  Buoyed by the calming effects of the tea, Arman felt somewhat better and had the urge to attend to a few pressing business matters. Now would be a good time to review his many accounts and ensure all was proceeding smoothly. He nodded toward his desk in the adjoining office of his bedroom. “Tablet,” he rasped, nodding towards the device charging on his desktop.

  Savchenko got up and stiffly walked to the desk and disconnected the tablet. Pressing the button on the device, the screen flashed to life, with the dialogue box requesting the password. He handed the tablet to Arman and seated himself at a side chair near the bedside table.

  Arman quickly tapped in the passcode and swiped until he located the icon representing access to his master account. He was prompted through a multi-layered password-encrypted sequence that represented the ultimate in security, designed to keep prying eyes, both human and electronic, from proceeding.

  Taking another calming nip of his doctored brew, Arman smiled as he reviewed column upon column of the fruits of his criminal syndicate. The spreadsheet, designed by elite criminal programmers who were eliminated after summarily completing their prescribed tasks, displayed an impressive financial empire. Arman smirked as he thought, And best of all, Markos had no idea how much was being taken right from under his nose every minute of every day.

  Quickly tabbing his way through page after page of deposits from shell companies, money laundering sites, and secret bank accounts around the world, Arman allowed himself a wry chuckle at the thought. Not bad for a homeless orphan who lived on the streets until he was sixteen!

  “Good news, boss?” Savchenko queried, his battered face breaking into what would only pass for a smile in some drug addict’s fever dream.

  Arman nodded. “Good day,” he whispered, taking another sip. “Warm-up, please,” he croaked, gesturing with the cup.

  Savchenko rose and took the steeping pot in hand and moved to refill Arman’s cup.

  The tablet screen flickered briefly as if hit by a momentary power surge. Arman stiffened and his brow furrowed as he registered the brief anomaly, but the image appeared to settle, and he relaxed.

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly, one column of figures went completely blank, whisked away into the ether. Then another column vanished into thin air. His eyes wide in disbelief, Arman watched as the third column of figures disappeared without a trace.

  Savchenko froze with the steeping pot in mid-serve. “What’s wrong, boss?’

  Unable to speak, his eyes riveted to the tablet in his hand, Arman could only watch as column after column of numbers ceased to exist. Frantic, he began to tab through page after page of his accounts, staring mutely as the screen displayed his worst nightmare. Transfixed, he watched as the columns collapsed upon themselves as if he were playing a deadly game of Tetris.

  In less than thirty seconds it was over. In a blind panic, Arman tabbed through page after page of his accounts, seeing all of his account headings with empty columns underneath, each one showing a zero balance. Savchenko stood by, silently observing his superior’s distress, not daring to speak until Arman could gather himself.

  The tablet pinged, indicating that Arman had received a notification. A small window appeared onscreen with the simple message, “Thanks for the donation. - F.S.”

  Choking with fury, and a vein throbbing visibly on his forehead, Arman could only utter a strangled hiss, “Stryker.” He flung the tablet forcefully into the bedroom wall, cracking its screen and putting a deep gash into the sheetrock.

  Savchenko said nothing, his mangled face exuding pure hatred, as he crushed the steeping pot in his massive hands, oblivious to the shards of glass mixed with hot tea and blood.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Seven smiled grimly as he watched the figures magically transpose themselves on his screen. In the blink of an eye, virtually all of Arman’s ill-gotten financial empire had been stolen from him in an unmistakable act of karma. Untraceable and irretrievable, the funds would be safely hidden away in Linchpin accounts, undiscoverable to any outsider. Peabody had seen to that.

  He put his screen to sleep and exhaled a deep, satisfied sigh. It was good to see a well-conceived plan come to fruition.

  The message to Arman, attributed to Stryker, had been Serafina’s idea. He had to admit, it was a nice touch. The woman could be absolutely ruthless at times — a real hardass. Of course, their profession demanded it more often than not. He shuddered briefly. He could only imagine the price that the perp paid for causing her to lose her eye. Still, even with one eye, he would hate to have to deal with her in an adversarial situation. She was one tough customer.

  He tabbed a quick message to her on his mobile. Satisfied with the message’s content, he hit SEND and placed his mobile on his desktop. Within seconds, he received her terse response: “ROGER THAT.” Now that the plan was in motion, she would be able to carry out her part going forward.

  He turned to his credenza and poured himself a liberal tumbler of Basil Hayden’s. He dispensed with the ice this evening, preferring, instead, to enjoy his cocktail neat.

  He turned back to his desk, his eye catching the file earmarked “CDRS” lying there. Taking a generous swallow of the whiskey, he reflected on the intelligence gathered by Peabody and Agent Jeong. This was a multi-faceted conundrum that had the potential to change the fabric of society and cause damage that would last for generations. What to do?

  He took another drink of his whiskey and sighed loudly. What was that quote from The Art of War?

  “He who wishes to fight must first count the cost…”

  FIFTY-SIX

  The next day began smoothly.

  It was a gusty, cloudy day, with a cloud ceiling that resembled granite. New Yorkers, as usual, kept their heads down, and went about their business, little realizing that a tense drama was unfolding in their midst. Like 9/11, the day held an ominous portent that no one seemed to recognize until it was perhaps too late.

  With CJ safely embedded in the CDRS camp, Flint, Eckles and two other Linchpin agents stationed themselves outside Laius’ building in the Con-Ed Emergency truck and tent. The agency also had numerous operatives in place at Madison Square Garden, as well as significant surveillance capabilities established inside. Peabody had even gone so far as to remotely access the Garden’s own video feed to watch and potentially participate in the proceedings.

  Everyone in the bogus Con-Ed truck was listening to and watching carefully everything that was going on in Laius’ co-op courtesy of CJ’s tiny body-cam. Most of the morning’s activities had centered around their breakfast meeting, which had spilled over into lunch, and then early afternoon. Occasionally, CJ would surreptitiously whisper some observation or provide a tidbit of information to the surveillance crew.

  CJ was working the other two women as a seasoned pro, but so far, little of any real consequence had taken place. Celine would occasionally wander off to handle some urgent task or another, leaving CJ alone with Innana, affording her the opportunity to ‘interview’ the woman. While CJ plied Inanna with carefully-worded questions, she was too guarded at this early stage to reveal anything of any real significance.

  The agents outside were living proof of the tedium that came with standard surveillance ops. Flint turned to Eckles, who was cocked back in his chair and dozing, and asked, “Is it always this boring on these surveillance gigs?”

  Eckles yawned and replied, “Shut up, Stryker, can’t a guy get a little shut-eye?”

  Flint persisted, “Seriously, how can CJ stand to listen to all this mind-numbing cult mumbo-jumbo? Can’t we just swoop in, knock ‘em out and go through all their files?”

  Eckles, realizing a nap wasn’t in his immediate future, replied, “Are you serious, son? There’s this little thing called civil liberties. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. We’re skating on pretty thin ice as it is. Unless you have a warrant in your pocket, you’d better stay on task here.”

  Frustrated, Flint passed his hand through his coarse auburn hair. “I know it, but this is driving me crazy. Us sitting here in this van while CJ is up in that co-op putting her life in danger.”

  Eckles scrutinized Flint somberly. “She knows the risks, Stryker, just like you and I do. Believe me, she’s more than capable of taking care of herself, so just settle down and relax. She might be a petite little thing, but that woman is more proficient than a lot of men I know.” He purposely eyed Flint.

  Flint gave Eckles a hard glare, but said nothing. He turned away from Eckles and resumed observing the activity in Laius’ suite. He watched as Celine appeared to be greeting someone who had just entered the co-op. The striking young woman greeted everyone all around, moving last to introduce herself to CJ. Seeing her face clearly on the monitor, Flint narrowed his eyes as he thought, “She looks familiar. Who is sh—”

  His body went rigid, and he stared at the young woman’s face. “What th—”

  Eckles and the tech reacted almost simultaneously. “What is it?”

  Tapping the monitor, Flint replied, “It’s her. It’s the crazy woman from O’Toole’s Bar!”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  The men all crowded together at once as the woman’s face clearly filled the screen. “She’s the one Cinder and I had a run-in with at O-Toole’s one afternoon, and CJ and I followed her the night of the gym explosion. Both of us are pretty sure she’s tied into it all somehow.” He pointed to her face which filled the screen. “Get Sherman to run a facial recognition software model on her and see if he can figure out who she is.” The tech nodded and spoke quietly into his headset. Onscreen, the young woman finished her greetings and made her way to leave. Just before stepping on the elevator, Celine quickly handed her an envelope.

  Flint rose and zipped his jacket, heading for the van’s exit door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Eckles asked. “Sit your tail down, party-boy.”

  Flint turned to face Eckles and replied, “I can’t just sit here and do nothing. You guys are experts on extraction, and you’ll be needed when CJ and those two women head to the Garden later today. My Precog is never wrong and I’ve gotten some bad vibes over this woman. I’m going to follow her and see what she’s up to. If it turns out to be a dead-end, I’ve got the schedule on my phone, and I’ll meet up with everyone at the Garden. If Sherman finds out anything about who she is, tell him to text me the info.”

  Eckles set his jaw and looked like he was about to argue the point, but relented, smiling grimly. “All right, Stryker. You go ahead - but if you screw this up, it’s your ass, not mine.”

  “Fair enough, Eckles.” He turned to exit, but paused and looked back at the senior agent, “Thanks.”

  Eckles shook his head and replied tersely, “Get lost before I change my mind.” He winked at Flint and added, “And Stryker - don’t get yourself killed. I don’t want you to deny me the pleasure of breaking your neck myself.”

  Flint grinned and nodded and pushed his way out into the blustery day, closing the door behind him.

  TUCKED AWAY in a doorway across the street from Inanna’s building, Flint was certain that the woman wouldn’t be able to see him when she emerged from the building lobby. He kicked himself that she’d spotted him at the diner that night, but he’d make sure she didn’t see him today. He’d use every surveillance trick in his Linchpin training to see to that.

  As he stood in the doorway with the typical crowd of pedestrian traffic hurrying by, the young woman emerged from the building and stood briefly at the doorway adjusting her coat against the brisk wind.

  She turned and headed southwest. Keeping her clearly in sight from across the street, Flint moved quickly at a pace that was to the rear of her to avoid her line of sight. Although the afternoon streets and sidewalks were relatively busy, he was easily able to keep her in sight.

  Anticipating that she might at any moment, hail a cab and head in a direction that would catch him unawares, Flint chose an opportune cluster of vehicular and sidewalk traffic to cross the street and fall in behind her. With a thick knot of pedestrians between the woman and himself, Flint wove in and out, keeping an eye on her.

  He saw her glance at her watch, and pause at a crosswalk, obviously trying to determine what to do. He ducked into a doorway and tried to be inconspicuous as he observed her. She appeared to be none the wiser of his existence and stepped away from the curb and walked about twenty feet away from the intersection. She raised a hand to hail a cab and stepped toward the curb.

  A taxi coasted to a stop about five feet from her. Exasperated, she began to walk toward the cab only to have a middle-aged man step in front of her, open the door and jump in. She watched, open-mouthed as the cab sped away. “Bastard!” she screamed and a cluster of passerby gave her a wide berth as she vented her fury. Her face flushed and her jaw set, she raised her hand again and hailed another cab. This one pulled closer to her, and another man tried to cut her off, reaching for the door as she flanked him. Taking a full swing, she used her satchel to send the man sprawling on the sidewalk. Furious, the man scrambled quickly to his feet and turned to confront her. Her eyes wild, she clutched the satchel tightly, ready to swing, daring him to try again.

  Something in her demeanor convinced the man that hailing another cab would be a better choice, so he nodded and gestured with an open hand that the cab was all hers.

  She stepped quickly into the cab and it pulled slowly away from the curb, merging into traffic. The man who’d just lost his cab had hailed another and was just about to step in when Flint cut him off and jumped in ahead of him, telling the man, “Sorry, buddy, it’s just not your day.” The cab sped away leaving the man standing on the curb casting highly vulgar invectives on Flint’s family lineage and proclivity for carnal relations with livestock.

  “Follow that cab,” Flint demanded as he tried to keep the woman’s cab in view. The cabbie, a Nigerian named Runako Ngoimgo, gave him a suspicious glare in the rearview mirror, “Am sorry, sir. Runako not allowed to follow other cabs. Please step out.”

  Flint produced a hundred dollar bill and said, “Here’s a hundred. There’s another one for you if you keep that cab in sight.”

  His eyes wide, and his lips curled in a grin ripe with avarice, the cabbie replied, “Why didn’t you say so, sir? Runako aims to please.” With that, he stomped on the accelerator, weaving in between cars until he was two car lengths behind the other cab.

  Flint attempted to settle in, nervously watching traffic as Ngoimgo cursed the other drives in a highly animated mix of pidgin English and Yoruban. Expertly weaving in and out of traffic, his efforts allowed him to keep close to the other cab. “Runako doing good, yes?” he asked expectantly, staring at Flint in the rear view mirror, before slamming on the brakes as the car in front abruptly halted.

  “Yes! Yes - Runako doing good!” Flint retrieved another bill from his wallet, “Listen - an extra fifty dollars is yours if we get there alive!”

  Runako decelerated and took on the driving posture of an 80-year-old school bus driver. “Runako careful - see?” His gaze fixed on Flint again, once more ignoring the traffic, until a blaring horn shifted his focus.

  Flint’s cell vibrated noiselessly in his pocket alerting him to an incoming text. He tapped his code in quickly and saw the text from Sherman Peabody, “WOMAN’S NAME IS HALLIE FULLER - FILE TO FOLLOW - BE CAREFUL”.

  How cute. Sherman sent him a frowny face emoji.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Desperately trying to keep the other cab in sight, Flint tapped his phone to access the file that Sherman was forwarding him on Hallie Fuller. It was a struggle, to say the least, with the cabdriver Ngoimgo twisting the vehicle through traffic to score $250.

  His eyes darted over the report Sherman had sent him. In a nutshell, Hallie Fuller was a troubled young woman. Shortly after college and law school, her life had been full of promise. She was hired as a junior partner with one of New York’s most prestigious law firms and it appeared the sky was the limit.

  Then her life began to unravel. There were countless accusations of sexism and workplace harassment. In each case, the claims were thoroughly investigated and found to be baseless. The more frequently her claims were refuted, the more numerous and outlandish they became. Eventually, she was unable to perform her responsibilities as an attorney because of some perceived slight or injustice.

  Finally, to bring closure to the situation, the firm reached a landmark settlement, paying her an undisclosed amount to leave the firm. To say it was a huge amount would be an understatement. Sherman had included the amount, and it had caused Flint to give a low whistle.

  After the settlement, Fuller became unemployable. No company or organization would take the risk of exposing themselves to any liability where she was concerned. This only exacerbated Fuller’s sense of sexual discrimination, causing her to become a tireless crusader, or crank, depending on one’s point of view.

 

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